


This Flesh and Bone

by Mordhena



Series: Crowley is Asmodeus Headcanon [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Archangels, Castiel Backstory, Castiel!whump, Grief/Mourning, Headcanon, Hurt Castiel, Loss of Grace, Loss of Powers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-06-29 12:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 16,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15729609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mordhena/pseuds/Mordhena
Summary: This story arc runs kind of parallel to The Song Remains and thus, could be considered to be part of the series "Starving Till I Tasted You" It won't follow exactly the same arc as The Song Remains, because it is told from Castiel and Crowley's viewpoints. As is true in life, ask three different people to describe the same event and you will get three different stories, but put them all together and you have a fair composite of the facts--the reason that three witnesses are usually necessary to establish a case at law.Also, for the purposes of this story, I have borrowed David Tennant's Crowley (Good Omens BBC Pre-production) as the vessel for our Crowley.This isnot, however,a Good Omens crossover.This flesh and boneIs just the way that we are tied inBut there's no one homeI grieve, for youYou leave, meSo hard to move onStill loving what's goneThey say life carries onCarries on and on and on and on--Peter Gabriel, I GrieveThis needed to be written.I don’t know if this will end happily or not at this stage.The playlist for this fic ishere





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Haggitha](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Haggitha), [zonya35](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zonya35/gifts).



> This story arc runs kind of parallel to The Song Remains and thus, could be considered to be part of the series "Starving Till I Tasted You" It won't follow exactly the same arc as The Song Remains, because it is told from Castiel and Crowley's viewpoints. As is true in life, ask three different people to describe the same event and you will get three different stories, but put them all together and you have a fair composite of the facts--the reason that three witnesses are usually necessary to establish a case at law.
> 
>  **Also, for the purposes of this story, I have borrowed David Tennant's Crowley (Good Omens BBC Pre-production) as the vessel for our Crowley.This is** not, however, a Good Omens crossover.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  _This flesh and bone_  
>  _Is just the way that we are tied in_  
>  _But there's no one home_  
>  _I grieve, for you_  
>  _You leave, me_  
>  _So hard to move on_  
>  _Still loving what's gone_  
>  _They say life carries on_  
>  _Carries on and on and on and on_  
>  \--Peter Gabriel, I Grieve
> 
>  
> 
> This needed to be written.  
> I don’t know if this will end happily or not at this stage.  
> The playlist for this fic is [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/1270263103/playlist/2DlNXIEAdOMkHqbioq8fFB?si=7i8nzgPKTaue2MLkpEMcFQ)
> 
> * * *

**_Prologue_ **

 

_There is never time._

Castiel remembers when he lived outside of time. Then it seemed as though anything could happen. Everything was possible. He’d had no real concept of seasons, of years or days or hours. No true understanding of how it feels to lose everything in a moment.

In all his ages of watching over humanity, he has never truly grasped what humans meant when they uttered the words: “I don’t have time for…”

Until now.

A day ago, he returned from the empty.

An hour ago, Sam told him Crowley is dead.

A moment ago, he felt his heart shatter.

A time, times and half a time ago, he fell in love.

If he could, Castiel would return inside the rift and…  _What? What would you do? What **could**  you do? With no grace, no wings, no power, what could you possibly hope to do?_

 _Why?_  How often the seraph has heard humans utter that word. The unanswerable question. Why now? Why me? Why him? Why her? Why?

“ _Why,_ Crowley?” Castiel sighs. He raises his head, looking around the small room he’s taken as his own in the bunker. It is too confining and not small enough all in one. He closes his eyes. He longs for the etheric plane a place where he can melt himself into the vastness, lose himself in timelessness, leave this grief behind.

Castiel lifts a hand, passes his fingers across the wetness on his cheek. It still  surprises him, this human emotion. A thing Crowley would scoff at. Yet it feels fitting. It feels right to weep. He will indulge it. Just for a moment.

Just for a short time.

_But there is never time._

Already, he can hear Dean calling his name, urgency in his voice, impatience in his tread as he approaches along the hallway. Castiel squares his shoulders, lifts his chin. Gets to his feet.

He has no time for grief.

* * *

**Chapter 1**  

 

He’s sleeping for the first time in centuries. Deep, dark, silent, blissful sleep. Not a dream to stir his subconscious mind, not a sound to spoil the peace. Thus, when he first hears the voice, it rouses little more than idle curiosity. When he realises whose voice it is, curiosity becomes annoyance. When he makes out what the voice is saying, annoyance blossoms into pure fury. He comes fully awake with a roar of rage.

“I’ll kill that manky scunner!” Of course, that will entail getting out of the empty, or wherever he is. He’s just beginning to ponder on how to do that, when the magic swirling around him intensifies and he feels the familiar tug of a summons. Of course, not enough that she had to wake him from his rest, she’s pulling him back, too…oh well at least he gets to kill her sooner.

Then, he is standing inside the ruins of an old church, somewhere on Earth, he supposes. The ruins are somewhat Druidic. Ten points for atmosphere, he silently acknowledges.

The witch gives a cry of delight. “Fergus! My own dear boy!”

He quirks an eyebrow. Eyes her coldly.  
  
“Don’t ye know me?”

“Of course I know you.  _Mother_.” Crowley grimaces. The timbre of his voice is all wrong. By far too… not  _him_. He clears his throat.

“Oh! Welcome back. Let me  _look_  at you!” She reaches for him and Crowley takes a backwards step.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Well I might have expected a note of gratitude at least,” Rowena snaps.

“Why? What possible reason could I have to  _thank_  you for bringing me back here?”

Her green eyes go hard, glittering coldly like the emeralds adorning the handle of the dagger she holds in one delicate hand. “Oh, you ungrateful wee tadger!” She huffs a breath. “How very noble it must’ve seemed to sacrifice yourself. Well, I’ve lived a mite longer than you have, and I can tell ye plain, it’s  _easy_  to die for a cause…much harder to  _live_  for one…”

Her voice fades out as Crowley turns his attention to his vessel.

“What in the name of Hades is this?” He holds his hands out in front of him, turning them palm upwards as he examines them. They’re artistic. Fine bones and slender fingers but they’re not his hands. Not the hands of Roderick Crowley, more to the point, not the hands of his proper vessel.

“It’s your new vessel,” Rowena says. “I think he’s quite handsome. And he’s Scottish. I think the hair's a nice touch.”

Crowley scowls. “Where is my good suit?”

“Sam and Dean burned it, on the other side of the rift.”

“Bollocks!” _Wait, what did she say about hair?_  Crowley goes to her altar, peers into the silver bowl of water set there and closes his eyes on a shudder of disgust.  _Red. Red hair!_  He rounds on her. “I’m going to annihilate you!”

“No, you’re not.” She doesn’t flinch. She sets her hands on her hips. “You’re going to sack up, as the Winchesters say and you’re going to re-join this fight.”

For a moment he is lost for a response to her barefaced effrontery. Then he chuckles. “Right.” He raises a hand. “Make me.” With a snap of his fingers, he teleports himself as far away from her as he can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manky scunner - Dirty annoying person  
> Wee tadger - little dick


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

"What the _hell_ were you thinking, Cas?" Dean yells as he thunders down the metal stairway into the bunker.

Castiel flinches. The bunker seems to shudder with the racket of the hunter's entrance. It makes Castiel feel as if his teeth are rattling. Maybe they are. Or maybe that's an effect of the headache. He closes his eyes, nurses his head in his hands, elbows on the table. His head throbs in synch with the all-too-mortal heart beating behind his ribs. He speaks cautiously, afraid the words will shatter his gritted teeth. "Don't shout, Dean. Please."

"You coulda been killed...again!" There's a brittle edge to the words that makes Cas look up, meeting worried, angry green eyes.

"I'm fine."

Dean scoffs and turns away, scrubbing both hands through his already tousled hair. "You are _not_ fine," he growls. "You're…"

"Dean, lay off." Sam comes down the stairs, his footfalls no less frantic, but somehow gentler. "Yelling at Cas's not gonna help anything."

"It'll make me feel better," Dean snaps but to Castiel's relief, he backs off, stomping through to the kitchen and returning after a moment with three beers. He pops the lid off a bottle and offers it to Castiel.

A rush of nausea and the Seraph shakes his head. "No," he rasps. It's a peace offering. He understands that, but the idea of swallowing the concoction of hops and water is untenable. "May I have water?" Castiel doesn't really want that, either, but if drinking is the means of securing peace, he thinks he could force down a mouthful or two.

Dean sighs, puts the bottle on the table and opens another, which he gives to Sam.

There's several moments of blissful silence while the brothers drown their defeat in deep draughts of light ale.

Castiel puts his head in his hands again. At least the pounding of his head dulls the ache of loss a little.

His actions were foolhardy. Castiel doesn't need Dean yelling at him to understand that. At the same time, Rowena's increase in power had surprised him. She's always been a formidable witch, but something has changed. The magic she lashed him with had knocked him, figuratively, into the middle of next week. Physically, it had slammed him into a wall with enough impact to shatter the body of a mortal. Only by dint of his dwindling grace and the last moment flaring of his ruined wings, had the Seraph staved off the worst of the blow. He suspects that the basal phalanx of his right wing is fractured. The headache stems from residual effects of magic.

"I've failed," Castiel grinds out between teeth clenched so hard that his jaws ache. "Again." He pulls in a breath shivering as other aches and injuries begin to surface. "I'm sorry."

"Cas, it's okay," Sam says.

Castiel loves him for the gentle concern in his voice. It's undeserved, yet the Seraph craves it.

"You're an idiot," Dean puts in, but even that reprimand bears a hint of grudging forgiveness. It washes over Castiel like a salve, reminding him that even when he fucks up, these two rough-edged men care about him. That's at the back of Dean's anger even if he'd like to kick Castiel's ass. It stings tears to Castiel's eyes. He sighs and let's some of the tension seep away.

"Are you hurt?"

Castiel lifts his head, looks into Sam's eyes. Isn't it obvious? He's about to reiterate that he's fine, but the soft light of worry in Sam's gaze stops him. He heaves a breath. "My wing is broken. I have a terrible headache, and…" Another sigh. "Yes. I'm hurt."

"What can I…" Sam starts to say, but his words trail off at the sound of measured footsteps from the war room.

"Gentlemen." Arthur Ketch is framed in the arch between the war room and the library.

Sam and Dean move as one. Guns in their hands within the flicker of an eyelash as they face off with the man of letters.

"How did you get in here?" Dean demands, earning a patronizing glance from the man.

Ketch raises his hands showing he's unarmed. "Before you do anything hasty," he says. "Perhaps you should know I'm not alone." He jerks his chin, signaling to someone as yet unseen and all three watch as a man steps from the shadows beyond the arch. He's filthy, splattered with blood and other unspeakable things. His long hair hangs in lank, greasy strings, obscuring the upper part of his face. His lips are crudely stitched together with bloodstained sutures.

The reek of him turns Castiel's stomach anew. He stares for a long moment in silence and sucks in a breath as terrified golden eyes look up, peering through the strands of dirty hair to meet Castiel's gaze. The Seraph gets to his feet, recognition warring with disbelief.

Sam and Castiel speak together. "Gabriel!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for any confusion with chapter numbering. I decided to consolidate the prologue and chapter one into a single page so the numbers will have changed. If you received a notification that I had posted chapter four...this chapter is that one.

Crowley is bored. The very thing he had died to escape; boredom.

He stands on the balcony of the luxurious house his former vessel owned in Venice, swirling whiskey in a cut glass tumbler as he stares into the murky waters of a canal below. The notion of casting himself into the eddying oil-slicked depths has crossed his mind more than once, but it wouldn’t kill him. It would piss him off, but he doesn’t need to be any more furious than he already is.

What’s more there is no hell to run—it's still there, he simply doesn't want the job—and therefore no minions to torment either. The demon turns away from the balcony and is confronted with the reflection of his new vessel in a mirror on the opposite wall. Fury boils up within him and he hurls his glass at the mirror, shattering the image to a thousand shards of splintered glass. He doesn’t feel any better. Scowling, he goes to a drinks table and pours more whiskey.

“Guiseppe!” Crowley shouts.

A young man comes into the room. “ _Signore_?”

The demon gestures at the mess of broken glass. “Clean that up,” he growls.

“ _Subito_.” The servant bows and leaves the room to fetch a broom.

“You are a wee snob, aren’t ye?”

Snarling, Crowley rounds on his mother. “How in the name of…”

Rowena smirks. “Fergus. I’m your mother. I know you and I know all of your little hidey holes. You’re not very bright, for all your power and influence.” The witch helps herself to his whiskey. Downing the shot she pours, she turns to him. “Look at you pouting, and venting your spleen on your houseboy. Why don’t you…”

“Why don’t you get the hell out of my face.” Crowley turns a sour look on Guiseppe who has come back to sweep up the broken mirror. “Leave it.” He waves the man out of the room.

“Since when have you had mortal servants?” Rowena moves to the sofa, stepping delicately over shards of mirror along the way. She settles herself, green eyes regarding Crowley coolly. “No demons willing to be your whipping boys?”

Crowley draws a long, slow breath. “Guiseppe needs protection from my puppies,” he mutters. He turns away from her mocking regard and pours another drink. “He’s … working his passage.”

“I’ll _bet_ he is,” Rowena snarks. The scornful tone makes Crowley’s skin crawl. He grinds his teeth.

“I wonder,” Rowena muses aloud. “What your sweet seraph would think of the arrangement.”

“What does it matter what Castiel thinks? He’s dead.”

“No.”

Crowley turns to her, reading her expression. Her denial doesn’t come from shock or surprise. “He died fighting for the Winchesters.” Eyelids fall to hood his gaze as he watches her.

“True.” Rowena nods. “But if I’ve learned anything from associating with those morons, it’s that death is optional around them.”

“Cas… is alive?”

Rowena shrugs. “Last time I looked.”

“I haven’t sensed him since…”

“How stupid can you actually be? Of course you can’t _sense_ him. He’s in the bunker, he’s personally warded…did you lose every last wit in the empty, Fergus?” 

Crowley hastily pours himself another drink, silently cursing the slight tremor in his hands. He carefully keeps his back to the witch, gazing out over the canals as he drinks.

 _Castiel…alive._ That puts a slightly different slant on things. At his side, Crowley’s free hand curls into a fist. He senses movement behind him, hears the crackle of glass under Rowena’s feet. He flinches when a small hand lights on his shoulder.

“Come on,” Rowena says. “I know a way past the warding.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Rowena arrive at the bunker.

Dean meets Sam as he steps out of  Castiel's bedroom. He gestures at the door. "How is he?"

Sam glances over his shoulder and shakes his head, leading Dean a little further away from the door. "No better." He sighs. "He hasn't touched the food I brought him. Except for the snickers bar...and he brought that back up."

"He said anything?"

"No. Cas's trying to get him to talk, but so far he just hides in the corner. He's terrified, Dean. It's gonna take time to gain his trust."

"Time's a luxury we don't have, Sam. If he's got any grace left, we need it." Dean looks along the hallway as the bedroom door opens and Cas steps into the hallway. "Cas?"

The seraph walks over to the brothers. "He is deeply traumatized," he says. "I can't get any sense from him. He won't permit me to touch him, he…"

Dean huffs an impatient breath. "Cas, this is all old news. Does Gabriel have any grace and is he goin' to help us?"

"His grace is very low." Castiel scowls at Dean. "And he is in no state, physically or mentally, to decide whether to assist us."

Dean turns away with a sound of frustration. "Great!"

"I'm leaving," Castiel says.

"What?!" Dean turns to him. "Whaddya mean, you're leaving?"

"I'm going to see if I can find something to assist Gabriel."

"NO. You can't leave now."

"I can, and I _am,_ Dean. I've told you before I do not take orders from you."

"What? You've never said that. Wasn't that Crowley?"

"Well, then, I am saying it now." Castiel starts to walk towards the garage. "I need to borrow a car."

"Cas!" Dean follows him. "Castiel, wait!"

His scowl deepening the seraph turns to Dean. "What, Dean?"

"You're not going off alone. I'll come with you."

"Dean, I…"

"Not up for discussion, dude."

Castiel sighs. His feels his wings twitch as the desire to take flight washes over him. Flight is impossible with the ruined stumps on his shoulders. He closes his eyes. The last thing he wants is for Dean to accompany him. Part of the reason for going is to _escape_ Dean's constant demands for a time.

"I would prefer to go alone," he says after a long moment. "My search may take me to places where you cannot follow."

"No dice. We need you, and I don't want you taking off right now in the first place." Dean appeals to Sam. "Tell him we need him, Sammy."

Sam sighs. The look he turns on Castiel is apologetic. "Dean's right, Cas. You shouldn't be out there alone. We need to stick together."

Castiel experiences a rare flash of irritation--he admits that these flashes are growing more frequent as his grace continues to wane. He shakes his head. "I _am_ going alone," he growls. "Just for once, I wish you two would think of the bigger picture."

Dean's jaw drops. "What? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means exactly that," Castiel replies. "You only ever think of what you need, Dean. My brother is in that room." Castiel gestures at the door he just came through. "He's catatonic, injured, terrified, without the grace he needs to heal himself. _Lucifer_ is walking the Earth, Michael is wreaking havoc beyond the rift, where Jack, your mother, and others are depending on us to return to them...but _you_ need _me?"_ Castiel carefully avoids mentioning his own lack of grace, his damaged wings, his grief. Bitter experience has taught him that Dean will only brush all that aside, will probably call him a _'Baby in a trench coat,'_  or some other, equally hurtful epithet. "If it were Sam huddled in that room, you would do the same, regardless of whether I needed _you_ ," Castiel adds. "So...may I take a car or not?"

Dean blinks several times and takes a backwards step. "Fine," he says. "Yeah, take the Shelby. It's good to go."

For reasons hs can't quite comprehend, Dean relenting stings. Castiel frowns. He nods, stiffly and turns away. "I'll return as soon as possible," he says. He walks towards the garage. Hoping Dean will insist on following, whilst praying that he won't.

\--

Dean shakes his head, watching as Castiel disappears into the bunker's garage. He mutters something under his breath and heads for the library.

"You need to cut Cas some slack, Dean." Sam follows him.

"Cut _him_ some slack? He's the one acting like a douche."

Sam sighs and changes tack. "Okay, so let him go, and get some focus. We need to find a way to reopen the rift. You can't work _and_ mope over Cas."

"Mope? You wanna talk about moping, Sammy? Cas's the _king_ of that, lately."

Sam scoffs. "Are you _seriously_ that stupid? Cas just lost someone he cared for. Are you blind? No matter what we thought about Crowley, _Cas_ loved him!"

"Right! Cas is an idiot, then. He should know that demon was incapable of…"

"You're not an authority on Crowley, Dean. No one can really know how he felt about Castiel. Regardless...none of that takes away from the fact that Castiel is hurting and he might just need a little space."

"You think I don't know Crowley? I was a _demon_ Sam. I know how dead they are inside. And I _know_ Crowley better than you ever did."

"Oh, so you think that three months as a demon, listening to my drunken ramblings in a pub, qualifies you to assess my feelings." Crowley says from behind Dean.

Dean spins around to find himself face to face with Rowena and an unfamiliar, skinny red haired man. He fixes the stranger with a scowl. "Who the hell are you?" He staggers back when the strangers eyes light with an all too familiar red glow.

"Three guesses, Squirrel."

"You're dead."

"So I thought.

"We burned you, on the other side of the rift," Sam says. "How…"

"You burned my vessel, not _me."_ Crowley says. "About that… thanks for sticking me with...this." He indicates the new vessel with a wave of his hand. "Meanwhile, _I_ was enjoying a blissful sleep in the empty until my whore of a mother decided to interfere." A glance at Rowena. "An act for which, I fully intend to garrote her later."

"While this is all absolutely _gripping."_ Rowena rolls her eyes. "We don't have time for touching reunions. Did you get the ingredients for my spell?" She looks from one to another relasing an exasperated breath when no one speaks. "I'll take that as a no. What in the name of all that's unholy have you been _doing?"_

"Archangel grace is not exactly on special at the local Sip'n'Go," Sam says. "We've tried. There's hardly an _angel_ left, let alone an archangel.

"Honestly," Rowena snaps. "You just don't think, do ye? You've a big enough head on your shoulders!"

"If you think it's so goddamned easy, _you_ get the grace then," Dean says.

The red-haired stranger lifts an eyebrow, watching the exchange.

"There is an archangel available, Sam." The witch speaks slowly, the way a mother might chastise a recalcitrant two-year old. "Och! If I want this job done properly, I bloody well _should_ do it myself." She turns to Crowley. "Is it just _me_ who thinks the answer is glaringly obvious?"

The demon chuckles and looks at Sam. "She _means_ Lucifer."

"Lucifer," Dean says. "He's…"

"An archangel," Crowley says. "Albeit a fallen one, but he still has his grace."

"No way!" Sam shakes his head. "There's a hundred good reasons why we shouldn't tangle with Lucifer."

"Then, I suppose your mother is screwed," Crowley says. "Unless you've another archangel card up your grungy flannelette sleeves?" Dean shuffles his feet, glancing towards the bedrooms. Crowley smirks. "That's a tell."

"We’ve got Gabriel," Sam admits. "But he’s banged up to hell."

Dean narrows his eyes watching Crowley, and sees the barests flicker of surprise cross the demon's face. "You knew that Gabriel was still alive? That he was a prisoner in hell?"

"Of _course_ I knew!" Crowley snarls. "I was the _king_ of hell. Her inmate list was under my purview."

"He's been tortured, Way beyond the norm, even for hell," Dean growls.

"Not at _my_ hands. He was an asset. An ace up my sleeve, so to speak. Why would I want to damage him?"

"Oh never _mind_ the back story!" Rowena snaps. "Does he have grace, or doesn't he?"

"Not much," Sam says. "Not even enough to heal himself."

"Let me see him," Crowley says.

The brothers exchange a look. "Why?" They ask in unison.

Crowley raises his eyes heavenward. "I can feel grace," he says. "I might be able to tell whether he can spare any? _Also_ perhaps his grace is bound, somehow. I could undo that."

Sam shuffles his feet, hesitates a moment and then nods. "He's in Castiel's room. This way." He leads the demon along the hallway.

\--

Castiel draws a deep breath and lets it out between pursed lips as he turns the Shelby Mustang onto the Interstate. The sun is rising ahead of him. Morning. It pleases him as dawn always has. Watching the blazing ball climb away from the horizon takes his mind off the gnawing ache of loss in his chest. He lets the tension leech out of his shoulders, ignores the cold tears running down his cheeks, and drives.

\--

Gabriel hasn't budged from where Sam left him, huddled into the corner of Castiel's room half an hour ago. He huddles further into the corner when Sam and Crowley enter. His knees are drawn up to his chest and he rests his head on them, arms wrapped around to hide his face.

"Bloody hell." Crowley wrinkles his nose in disgust at the pervading reek in the room. "Couldn't you bathe him at least?"

"He won't let anyone touch him!" Sam growls. "It took me an hour to settle him enough to take the stitches out of his lips."

A strangled sound from Gabriel interrupts them.

Sam turns to look at the archangel who stares in wide-eyed terror at Crowley. "Gabriel?"

Crowley brushes past Sam. He steps closer to Gabriel. "Hello, angel."

Gabriel howls, frantically scanning the room for an escape route. He turns away hurling himself at the wall, attempting to climb it in his desperation for escape. Failing that, he hurls himself to the floor and scuttles on his belly under the bed.

Standing behind Sam, Dean huffs a breath. "You never hurt him?" He scoffs. "Yeah, that's obvious."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am posting this chapter in a hurry before I go out and it hasn't been edited at all yet. Please forgive any typos etc. I will fix them when I have more time, but this chapter burst out of me in an hour before I had to leave home.

Sam shakes his head. “No, Dean, wait.” He glances over his shoulder at his brother. “Gabriel reacted to me the same way at first.”

Crowley acknowledges Sam’s defence with a small nod. He approaches the bed and hunkers down. “Easy now, Parakeet.”

A muffled whimper comes from under the bed, but Gabriel stays put.

Crowley moves to sit cross-legged on the floor. He reaches a hand towards the huddled figure under the bed. “Sh…shhhh,” he soothes when Gabriel cringes. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He slowly extends his hand until it rests lightly on the archangel’s trembling arm. “That’s it. Good boy.” He turns his head slightly, speaking over his shoulder. “You two can leave now.”

 

 

Six hours later, Sam is nodding over a book in the library when Dean comes in from the garage carrying a sack of groceries. He takes the supplies into the kitchen and comes back. Wrapping his arms around Sam from behind, he burrows his nose into the  nape of his brother’s neck. “Come to bed,” he murmurs against Sam’s skin. He runs his hands down over Sam’s bare upper arms. “Why’nt you wearing a jacket? It’s cold in here.”

Pressing back a little, leaning into Dean’s warmth, Sam lets out a breath. “I’ve been looking for anything the Men of Letters might have known about this rift Jack opened,” he says.

Dean huffs a laugh against Sam’s neck. “I don’t think the Men of Letters ever dealt with a spawn of Lucifer.” He pulls Sam to his feet. “C’mon, hot shower and then bed for you.”

“Dean, it’s midday.”

“Yeah, and you’ve been awake fourteen hours solid.”

Sam seems about to protest, but his jaws open on a wide yawn and his shoulders slump with weariness. He allows Dean to guide him towards the bathroom.

They’re halfway along the corridor when Crowley pokes his head out of Castiel’s room. “I think you two should see this.” He beckons for them to come into the room.

Dean hesitates, glances at Sam.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Sam says. “I’ll just grab my jacket.”

Dean nods and walks into Castiel’s room. He stops just inside the door gazing at the walls, floor and ceiling which are covered with messily scrawled writing.

“Is that Enochian?”

“Hm.” Crowley grunts assent. “Most of it. There’s some ancient Mayan, a little Greek…Aramaic…”

“Gabriel do this?”

“Yes. It’s something of a travelogue. Details his travels from when Lucifer ‘killed’ him, up until he landed in Hell.” The demon sighs. “Mostly boring, braggadocio[i][ii]. Up to the part about shacking up with porn stars.”

“Porn stars?” Sam comes in,  pulling on his jacket. “What do they have to do with…” He pauses, taking in the scrawled writing. “Wow.”

“How did he do it?” Dean glances at Crowley and then at Gabriel who sits, still and quiet on the bed.

“He used his grace.” Crowley’s eyes track across the walls and then back to the archangel.

“So he _has_ grace?” Sam says.

“Hm. Enough to do that. Enough to heal himself and it’s obviously not bound. He _can_ use it,” Crowley replies. “He just _won’t.”_

Gabriel lifts his head at that, fixes Crowley with a look and seems about to speak. He shakes his head after a moment and his gaze drops to his hands which pick at the tattered sleeves of his shirt.

“What do you mean, he _won’t?”_ Sam demands. “He obviously _did,”_ he adds with a gesture at the walls.

“Yeah.” Crowley nods. “After I persuaded him to tell me what happened.” His eyes wander to one part of the wall behind the bed. “Not a pretty story.”

“Persuaded him, how?” Sam’s tone is suddenly threatening.

_“Gently!”_

Sam studies Gabriel for a moment and then looks at the demon. “So help me, if…”

His words are cut off by a sudden impact which shakes the entire bunker, rattling windows and doors. Lights flicker wildly and several bulbs throughout the building burst with a sound of tinkling glass.

“NO! No, no, nonono!” Gabriel hurls himself to the floor, scuttles into a corner where he curls into a ball and claps his hands over his ears.

“Bollocks!” Crowley vanishes.

“What the …” Dean pulls a gun from the back of his jeans and bolts into the hallway.

Sam hesitates, torn between following Dean and protecting Gabriel. He huffs a breath, shakes his head. “Sorry, Dude…triage!” He runs after Dean, skidding to a halt in the war room following Dean’s gaze, and the angle of the gun, to the top of the stairs.

“Hello, Boys.” Asmodeus smirks down at them from the catwalk.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Dean cocks the pistol.

“Please.” Asmodeus murmurs. “Did you think your warding was enough to exclude a Prince of Hell?” He smiles coldly. “I mean no harm,” he drawls. “Hand over my property and I’ll leave you in peace.”

“Gabriel is not your property!” Sam growls. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“Really?” Asmodeus lifts a hand, curls it into a fist, twists.

Sam chokes, clawing at his throat.

“Sammy?” Dean glances at his brother and then turns to the prince of hell. “Let him go, you sonuvvabitch!” He empties a clip into the demon’s chest. The gunshots echo and re-echo through the bunker but Asmodeus doesn’t so much as flinch. He glances at the henchmen flanking him. “Search this place. Fetch my pet heah to me.” He casually flicks his free hand and sends Dean crashing through a table to fetch up, senseless against the far wall.

“No!” Gabriel appears on the adjacent cat walk. He glares at Asmodeus. He snaps his fingers at the demon henchmen and they explode in twin showers of ash. “Leave Sam and Dean alone.”

“Gabriel. Come here.”

“Flee or die, Demon.”

“How dare you raise a hand to me or mine, I broke you, boy. Now come to heel.”

Sam chokes, writhing on the floor, fighting for air.

“Let. Sam. Go.” Gabriel flares his wings, his eyes glowing an unearthly blue-white.

Asmodeus laughs.

Gabriel pulls himself to his full height, his wings warbling overhead. The air shudders as power emanates from the archangel.

Asmodeus’ smug expression falters. He stumbles backwards a pace and glances down in horror as blue flames erupt at his feet. He lifts shocked eyes to Gabriel’s face “Gabri….aaaaaarrgh!” he screams as the flames leap and dance around him, consuming him and then Asmodeus explodes into showers of ash and dust as the Bunker is rocked by a shuddering blast.

Gabriel groans, his wings fold in around his body and he slumps to the floor.

Sam sucks in a long, rasping breath and curls into a ball, wracked with a fit of harsh, retching coughs.

After long minutes, Dean stirs, pushes up on his hands and knees. He goes to Sam. “Sammy? Hey. Hey!” He pulls his brother into his arms.

Sam’s looks up at him, eyes desperate as he claws at his bruised throat. He stares into Dean’s eyes, fists one hand in Dean’s shirt. Gasping, retching, tears streaming from his terrified eyes.

“Sam!” Dean shakes him. “Stay with me! It’s okay,  you’re gonna be okay!” He looks up and around, searching for Gabriel and sees the archangel lying motionless on the catwalk above. “Gabriel!”

Sam’s fingers spasm he releases a gurgling sigh and goes limp in Dean’s arms.

“No, no. no no no!” Dean shakes him. “Sam…Sammy!” He sobs, presses his mouth over Sam’s and tries to force air into his brother’s lungs.

 

* * *

 

[i] Rap Term: a type of rapping where the MC is "bragging and boasting" and can include subjects such as physicality, fighting ability, financial wealth, sexual prowess, or coolness.

[ii] Braggadocio Merriam Webster https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/braggadocio


	6. Chapter 6

Dean desperately breathes into Sam’s mouth, pausing in between to check if his brother is breathing. He’s so intent on what he is doing that he doesn’t notice when Crowley appears beside him.

The demon hunkers down next to Dean, studies Sam’s face. The cyanosed lips, the pallor around the eyes. “Let me see,” Crowley says. He firmly pushes Dean back a little and passes a hand over Sam’s neck. “His windpipe is fractured.”

“Do something!”

“I did!” Crowley snaps back. He stands as Sam chokes, gasps and rolls onto his side in a fit of coughing. “You’re welcome. As usual.”

“Where the hell did you go?” Dean demands, torn between checking on Sam and yelling at the demon. “We could’ve used your help.”

“ _My help?!”_ Crowley scoffs. “Just what do you think I could have done? That was a fully charged _Prince_ of hell!”

“Who was killed by a down-to-zero-grace archangel.”

“See?” Crowley smirks. “You didn’t need me. I was… reconnoitring, as it happens.”

Above them on the catwalk, Gabriel groans, and sits up. He looks around groggily, then shuffles to his feet. “Everyone okay?”

Dean helps Sam to stand. “Yeah,” he says. “No thanks to Ron Weasley here.”

Crowley scowls. Bar the hair, I look nothing like a Weasley! Far closer to Barty Crouch Jr…”

Sam shoots the demon a look. “I didn’t know that you read.”

“I don’t. I saw the movies.”

Sam turns to Dean. “He’s right, though. He does look more like…”

“Whatever!” Throwing his hands in the air, Dean stalks towards the kitchen. “I need a drink.”

Gabriel comes down the stairs. “Got any candy?” He follows Dean into the kitchen.

After a moment, Sam and Crowley join them.

“So, that’s Asmodeus out of the way,” Sam says. He looks at Gabriel. “How did you do that?”

The archangel shrugs. “Pent up rage, I guess.” He turns an unreadable look on Crowley who turns away rummaging through cupboards.

“I know you stash the good whiskey in here somewhere,” Crowley mutters.

Sam clears his throat. “Gabriel,” he begins. “We uh… we need…”

“Oh, here it comes.” Gabriel leans a hip against the counter, crosses his arms across his chest. “It’s always something with you two.”

Dean glowers, reaches into the oven and produces a bottle of Craig which he waves at Crowley. “Not like you don’t owe us,” he growls at Gabriel.

“I _don’t_ owe you anything,” Gabriel retorts. “I ganked Asmodeus…end of obligation.”

“We only need some grace,” Sam persists. He shoots his brother a glance full of _STFU.*_

“Yeah, well  you might’ve noticed I’m a little short in that department.”

“Not so short you couldn’t fry a prince of hell,” Dean says.

“Gabriel.” Sam sighs. “Look, you’ve been out of the loop, I get it. Just—listen—okay?”

Gabriel stays in the same closed off posture, but he inclines his head.

Sam draws a deep breath and launches in on everything that has happened since they saw Gabriel die.

 

* * *

 

Castiel sits stiffly on a park bench near the sandbox that marks the gate to heaven. He glances around from time to time, but mostly fixes his attention on the gate. He’d arrived at the playground two hours ago. The time for the rendezvous he’s arranged has come and gone. Castiel bows his head. _Perhaps there’s been some trouble_ , he thinks. _Perhaps I…_ He straightens up, stretches his cramped shoulders, gets to his feet. _Perhaps I should try something else._

“Castiel.” The voice stops him as he begins to trudge wearily back to the borrowed car. He turns. Relief flooding him.

“Daviel.”

The angel nods, glances around. He steps towards Castiel. “We shouldn’t talk here,” he says.

“I…have a car.”

Daviel quirks an eyebrow, but he follows Castiel without comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *STFU -- Shut The F**k Up


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have drawn from the wing and feather lore created by [NorthernSparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/northernsparrow) in this chapter as I love her canon about that, and she has generously permitted me to use her ideas. But credit goes where credit is due.
> 
> * * *

Sometimes, it is as though the empty has gotten inside and is eating him away. It gnaws and bites. It dulls his senses, numbs his emotions. He can’t feel. Odd that he should miss feeling.

Daviel agrees with Castiel’s plan and that should be a cause for jubilation. The seraph sighs. Aside from an urgent need to tell  Dean of his idea, there’s nothing. The prospect of healing Gabriel fails to stir anything. He is…flat.

Gabriel is Castiel’s most beloved brother. He should be exultant. He closes his eyes. He’s simply tired, he tells himself. He will rest. Soon. Just a little while longer.

* * *

 

Gabriel is sleeping. Cas is in the wind and Crowley has gone…wherever an erstwhile king of hell goes when he’s refusing either to rule Hell _or_ make himself useful. Dean doesn’t know what to do. He does what he always does when he’s at a loss. He picks a fight with Sam. It doesn’t even matter, in end, what they fight over. The fight is just a means to an end. It gives Dean a reason to slam his way out of the bunker, into the Impala and off to the nearest pub, where he plans to get too drunk to drive back home.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s late evening when Castiel pulls the borrowed Shelby Mustang into the bunker garage. The Impala is not parked in its usual spot. Castiel climbs, wearily, from the car and walks into the library. Sam is slumped, asleep, over a book of lore. The bunker is silent. No sign of Gabriel, but there is an ozone scent to the air. The smell you get after a wild summer storm, or after an angel lashes out at an opponent, with grace. Frowning, Castiel takes a seat opposite Sam. He waits.

It doesn’t seem like he has waited long before Sam stirs and sits up. He scratches his head, passes a hand across his chin, wiping away a trace of drool. His hazel-green eyes come to rest on Castiel, a little foggily and then Sam blushes, rubs the hand he wiped his face with along one leg of his jeans.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Cas. How long was I out?”

“I am unsure. I only arrived a few moments ago.” Castiel glances around. “Dean is not here.”

“We had a fight…” Sam sighs. “Actually, we had…” His fingers  scratch at the back of his head again. “Asmodeus came here.”

“What!?” Castiel is instantly on the alert. “Sam…”

“Whoah,” Sam raises his hands. “It’s okay. Gabriel…killed him.”

As is usual with the Winchesters, Castiel senses a novel length story behind that brief statement. He parts his lips to speak, but Sam cuts him off.

“I guess he found a reserve of grace somewhere,” Sam says, answering Castiel’s unspoken question.

“Apparently.” Castiel studies Sam a moment. “Dean…”

“S’fine,” Sam says. “He got antsy. Went out. Probably gonna pass out drunk in the car someplace.” He huffs a breath, glances in the direction of the bedrooms. “Gabriel’s pretty weakened. He’s asleep.” Something soft and compassionate flickers in his eyes and is gone.

More untold stories. Castiel sighs.

He has watched over these two men since they were children. Been there for the broken arms, the shattered dreams, the games, the fights, the tragedies and triumphs. He knows them, perhaps better than anyone else on this version of the earth. That flicker of compassion is very much a part of the Sam Castiel knows so well. He smiles a little as a sudden memory flickers across his mind.

“Sam,  do you remember when you were eight years old? You found a fledgling bird.”

Sam looks at him for a long moment. Frowns. “Yeah. How do you know about the bird?”

“I was there. I watched you care for it.”

“Huh. I thought you were sent to watch over Dean,” Sam says.

“It is difficult to watch over Dean without watching over you as well, Sam.”

Sam nods. “I guess we’re always in each other’s pockets.”

Castiel nods. “I watched you search for food every day, how you coaxed the bird to eat, to take water from a dropper.”

Sam smiles a little. “I did my best for her.”

“I wanted it to live. I _wanted_ that for you, Sam.” He bows his head. “The day it died…I wasn’t capable of emotion, then, but…”

“Cas…”

“I—I almost broke my cover and allowed you to see me. I wanted to speak to you, to let you see. I _wanted_ you to know that even though the bird died, your efforts were not in vain. I wanted you to know that there was someone else who.. _cared.”_

“Cas this was all years ago. It’s okay.”

Castiel shakes his head, looking into Sam’s eyes. “The day that bird died was the day I realised…the day I _knew_. I chose, that day, to stop believing the party line. To see the good in you. I chose to believe that no matter what had gone before. Despite Azazel’s schemes… To believe that Sam Winchester is _not a monster!”_

Sam says nothing. He stares at Castiel in silence for a drawn out moment.

Castiel watches conflicting emotions chase each other across Sam’s face.

“The party line… you mean Heaven?”

Castiel lets his gaze slide away. He bows his head, clears his throat. “I… uh…I found a brother, Daviel, who’s willing to help Gabriel.”

“He’s willing to help? To share his grace? Does he know how broken Gabriel is?”

“No. He can’t share grace. An angel’s grace would be insufficient. He has agreed to help me get Gabriel into Heaven.”

“Cas! Gabriel can’t go back to Heaven…they’ll kill him!”

“They wouldn’t _dare_ attack an archangel.”

“What about you? It’s dangerous for you, Cas!”

“Daviel will help, and once Gabriel is in heaven, he can restore his grace, and then he will protect me.”

“Assuming, of course, that I even _want_ to go to Heaven.” Gabriel speaks from the doorway connecting to the corridor.

Castiel turns to him. “Why wouldn’t you go? For the chance to restore your grace, to regain your powers…” He shakes his head slightly. “Don’t you know what I would give to…to have my grace, my _wings?”_

“It’s not the same for you and me,  Cassie. If I could give you back your wings, I would. You know what happened the day I left home. Dad told me to never darken Heaven’s doorway again.”

“Gabriel,” Sam says. “Without your grace, you’ll die.”

“We’re all gonna die eventually, Sammich. Even Angels…even _archangels_. I’ve had a long life.”

Sam frowns, but says nothing.

“Gabriel, you can’t give me back my wings,” Castiel says. “But you _can_ heal. You should.”

“Wait, won’t whatever is in heaven heal you too, Cas?”

Turning to Sam, the seraph shakes his head. “Not without my wings. I can never be healed. Metatron made sure of that. He wanted me to live a long life, here on the Earth, Marry, have children and die…then tell him my story.”

“But…” Sam looks confused. “Wouldn’t having your grace help you to heal your wings?”

“This is not _important_ , Sam.” Castiel says. He relents a moment later. “It doesn’t work that way. Without wings, an angel cannot have grace. The wings…the feathers to be more precise, store grace.”

“So, Metatron did that?” Gabriel makes a gesture at Castiel. “ _He_ ruined your wings?”

“Mine, and those of many other angels,” Castiel replies. “They burned up in the fall.”

Gabriel bows his head, closes his eyes. “Asshole,” he whispers.

“We’re wasting time.” Castiel squares his shoulders. “Gabriel. This is the one thing you can do…for me.”

“Oh! Unfair!”

“Help us to reopen the rift, find Jack, and Mary Winchester, defeat Michael and Lucifer, and save both worlds.”

Gabriel glares at Castiel for a long moment. The seraph meets his gaze levelly. At last, the archangel’s shoulders droop in defeat. He turns to Sam. “Dad gave him those pretty blue eyes on purpose,” he grumbles. “He knew I’d be a pushover to them.”

Castiel releases a breath. “Thank you,” he says. “I have a car.”

“I think I can go one better than that.” Gabriel rests a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. He and Castiel vanish a moment later with the sound of powerful wingbeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a deleted scene/conversation for this chapter which you can read [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16073189)


	8. Chapter 8

_What’s the bloody point?_ Crowley glares down at the Venetian canal below his balcony and scowls. _I’ve been back almost a week,  running hither and yon for that pair of numpties* and not one flicker of acknowledgement from Castiel._ He paces away from the window. _He must know I’m back. He must be able to sense me._ **I’m** _not the one with angel blocking sigils tattooed on my skin! He’s alive. I know that much. Moose mentioned that he tried to help Gabriel so…_

With an impatient sigh, the demon snaps his fingers teleporting himself within range of another angelic being he’s been tracing. _Not too close,_ Crowley cautions himself. _This is the Big Kahuna you’re dealing with._ As a precaution, Crowley drops the blade concealed up his sleeve into his hand as he edges closer to the building Lucifer occupies.

“This isn’t right…” Crowley feels the hairs along the nape of his neck prickle with that instinct which kept him alive for millennia. He narrows his eyes, sniffs the air. _It’s Lucifer all right, but…_

With a mite more confidence, the demon steps forward and pauses outside a motel room door. There are two beings inside. Lucifer—or some reasonable facsimile thereof—and another, lesser angel wearing a female vessel. Crowley presses the side of one thumb to his lower lip,  thinking for a long moment.

“Oh, what the hell,” He murmurs at last. “Nothing ventured...”

He takes a half-step backwards, pushes off from the back foot, throws his weight,  and his other leg forward, using momentum and a smidgen of disgrace to lend the kick power and connects with the flimsy door, sending wood splintering as the door explodes inwards.

Lucifer is seated on the end of a king bed. His elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his hands. The other angel is semi-conscious, lying on the bed, eyes closed. She doesn’t stir.

Lucifer looks up, not lifting his chin from his hands. He studies Crowley for a moment, a puzzled frown creasing his brow, then something seems to click. He  puffs out a breath. “Oh.” He says. “It’s _you._ Nice hair. Reminds me of a witch I once…mutilated.”

Crowley tips his head to one side. This is not the reception he’d expected.

“I’d offer you a drink, but I just finished the house red.” Lucifer gestures at the motionless female angel. “But then, I don’t suppose you’re here to shoot the breeze.”

“Stealing grace? That’s low, even for you,” Crowley says.

“I didn’t _steal_ it. She donated it.”

“She’s not even an archangel.” Crowley snorts. ”How long do you expect to last doing that.”

“Not long. I hope.”

Crowley’s frown deepens. “What the hell is the matter with you? You reek of defeat!”

Lucifer says nothing. He shrugs and his gaze drops to the floor.

Hunkering down in front of him, Crowley uses the tip of his blade to lift the archangel’s chin. “I’d hoped for more of a fight, to be honest,” he says. “But all the same, you’re my prisoner.”

Lucifer sighs and holds out his hands. “Cuff me then. I’ll come quietly.”

“Pathetic!” Crowley spits. He takes a pair of warded cuffs from his pocket, slaps them onto Lucifer’s wrists and hauls Lucifer to his feet. “Come on. You might be useful yet.”

\--

The park where heaven’s gate is located is quiet, deserted. The mothers with strollers, and young children at their feet have gone. The sun has set and the larks have gone to roost. The pond is bereft of ducks. No bees hum drunkenly in the roses.

A lone figure sits hunched on the bench next to the sandbox. He stares broodingly at the sigils traced in the sand. He shifts position a little, lets out a breath and puzzles over events for the twentieth time.

He and Gabriel arrived at the gate mid-afternoon. Daviel awaited them as promised. But when it came time to step through the portal into heaven, Gabriel turned to Castiel and forcibly pushed the seraph back.

“Stay here, Cassie.” Gabriel’s golden eyes locked with his. “It’s bad enough, me daring to flop a big hairy toe over this particular threshold. I won’t let you endanger yourself for me.”

“But…”

“No buts, little bro. I’m facing this one alone.”

His attempt to push his way through was met with a wing slap which sent him reeling. When Castiel gathered himself to try again, Gabriel drew his blade.

The shock of that still stings. Castiel closes his eyes gnaws on his bottom lip. _I should have pressed on. He would never harm me. Not seriously. I should have insisted._

 --

When Crowley and Lucifer land in the Bunker Library, Sam nearly topples out of his chair in shock.

“Surprise,” Crowley says.

Sam blinks. He looks from Crowley to Lucifer and back. “What—how?”

Crowley sniffs. “Easy." He shoots Lucifer a pitying glance. “Too easy, in fact. He’s got no fight left in him.”

Lucifer shuffles his feet. He lets out a long, slow, breath and looks at dully at Sam. “So can you kill me already, and get it over with?”

Sam frowns. He looks askance at Crowley who shrugs. “Don’t ask me what’s come over him,” the demon says. “He’s washed up. Low grace, and no cojones.” He shoves Lucifer towards Sam. “So he’s all yours, do whatever you want with him. I won’t sully my hands on this…bogging jobby.”**

Lucifer stumbles forward, looking back over his shoulder at Crowley. “Ouch! That’s harsh.” He turns weary eyes on Sam. “So…'I’m all yours.'” He emphasises the phrase with air quotes. “The cage, round two with you in the heavyweight corner, Sammy. Sweet, sweet, revenge. Come on…show me what you’ve got.” He pauses for a moment, quirks an eyebrow. “You _know_ …if the shoe were on the other foot, _I_ would annihilate you!” He swaggers. “And bring you back, and annihilate you and bring you back and—”

Sam punches Lucifer square in the mouth, knocking him to the floor.

Looking up at Sam, Lucifer wipes blood from his lips with one finger which he then slips into his mouth, sucking it clean. “Ding, ding,” he says. “We have a match.”

“Shut up.” Sam reaches down, hauls Lucifer up by the collar of his shirt and slams him into a chair. “You shut up!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Numpties - idiots  
> **Bogging jobby - Useless turd


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please forgive the delay in posting this chapter, it started out so similarly to chapter 7 that I spent several days trying to rewrite the beginning, but it simply wouldn't cooperate, in the end, I decided to leave it as is. It's a strange little chapter, but I hope it will find favor all the same.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Chapter note: A squab is a young pigeon which has not yet fledged.

If he cared to, Castiel could state how long he has sat waiting for Gabriel’s return, down to the last microsecond. He doesn’t care. It’s been… what humans might exaggeratedly call _ages._ That term has always amused the seraph when spoken by a human. Most humans— _all_ humans since Adam, Enoch and Methuselah anyway—don’t live anywhere _close_ to a single age. No human has seen as many ages come and go as Castiel has. He knows that the term is figurative. Dean told him that, and Sam explained what figurative means.

It’s been at least 20 hours. Another full cycle of daylight has almost passed. The sun is setting. Mothers have tucked infants into strollers, called ambulant children to them, loaded kids, dogs, frisbees and pavement bicycles into cars, and driven away; their thoughts turning to preparing food, bathing children, settling down for the night. _Age-old_ concerns that every mother since Eve has considered.

Castiel draws a sigh. Gravitational vibrations tell him that tonight is a full moon. He glances up at the clear skies overhead, shifts his weight on the bench and resettles. He listens to the fading hum of bees in the roses planted behind the bench.

He wishes Gabriel would return. He wishes Gabriel had taken him to heaven with him. He wishes… He wishes Crowley were here.

Castiel closes his eyes. _Wishing is futile,_ he tells himself. _Wishes don’t come true._

“Hello,” A voice says. “Lovely evening.”

Castiel lifts his head from his hands long enough to study the man standing a few feet away from the park bench. He’s slender, average height, fair skin, and incongruous, shoulder length red hair. He wears dark glasses, which is also odd, given that the sun is well below the horizon. His clothing is too light for the evening chill. Castiel frowns at him.

The man— _No, not a man, he’s something…other than human,_ Castiel thinks, looks to where the moon is rising above the low treeline at the edge of the park.

“Always loved a full moon. It’s sort of…magical, wouldn’t you agree?”

Castiel catches a hint of accent in the voice, Scottish, perhaps. He follows the stranger’s gaze, studying the moon. “It’s not magic which creates beauty,” he murmurs.

The stranger shoots him a glance, an enigmatic smile. “I think you meant to say a thing of beauty need not be created by magic in order to be magical.”

Castiel shifts in his seat, glances at the portal to heaven. “I suppose so,” he murmurs. He startles when the stranger moves to sit beside him. The stranger crosses one ankle over the other knee, rests his arm along the back of the bench.

“You’re young, to be so cynical.”

That surprises a chuckle from the Seraph. “You’d be shocked to learn my age.”

“Perhaps…perhaps not.” The stranger eyes him over the rims of his dark glasses. “You seem little more than a squab, to me.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I cannot fly, so that is probably apt.”

“What are you doing here alone, after dark?”

“You ask too many questions. I could ask you the same”

“I’ve only asked two questions,” the stranger says. He doesn’t volunteer anything about his purpose in this particular park, at this particular spot.

“I’m rather busy,” Castiel says.

“Hm.” A nod. “Everyone is, these days.” The stranger turns his gaze to the moon. “You know why it’s magical, the full moon? That’s question three by the by.” The stranger pauses.

Castiel says nothing.

“On full moon nights, you could imagine anything…anything at all and it just may come true.” He removes the glasses, turns dark eyes that seem to glimmer with starlight on Castiel. “A broken angel might fly. Orphaned boys may find a mother…demons may be redeemed.”

Castiel stares into those strangely familiar eyes for a long moment. He lets out a breath, looks away. “There is only one demon I would wish redemption for. He died.”

“I’m…sorry.” The words carry a weight that goes beyond platitude.

Castiel turns to him. “Do I know you?”

“Do you?”

More questions. Castiel gets to his feet, suddenly restless where he’d been still and patient before this peculiar person arrived. He paces to the edge of the sandbox, hunkers down, tracing his fingers through the sigils which break and immediately reform under his touch.

There’s silence while the moon climbs high enough to cast long shadows of the trees across the park.

“I used to deal in such magic, once. For a price, of course.” The stranger’s voice reaches him like a whisper on a drifting breeze. Castiel flinches, closes his eyes. So achingly familiar, that voice.

“If I may be permitted one more question.” The stranger doesn’t seem to move, and yet he is standing beside Castiel. “Do. You. Know. Me?”

“It's impossible...He died.”

“Perhaps death is just a passing fad.”

Something hot and cold ripples through Castiel he’s burned and frozen all at once. He stumbles to his feet, a blade coming to his hand as he faces the stranger. “Who _are you?”_

“Not who I was.” The stranger doesn’t flinch. His eyes lock with Castiel’s. “Who do I remind you of, Angel?”

“Someone very…” Cas holds the dark gaze a moment longer. His heart beats raggedly.He wants to laugh, to cry, to scream. He whispers. “Crowley…”

“Crowley.” The stranger smiles. “We’ve been friends a very long time, Cassiel. Estranged even longer. Lovers for a time.”

“It’s _Castiel._ ” The correction is automatic. A reflex. “But..how? You died to close the rift.”

“Cassiel, Castiel, The Angel of Thursdays, The angel of solitude, the angel who loves the righteous man—Fergus McLeod, Crowley, Asmodeus, Papa Legba, King of the Crossroads, King of Hell…we’ve both had many names, Cas.”  Crowley breathes a cloud of steam on the cool air. “And how? Because my blasted _mother_ can’t help but interfere.”

“Crowley.” Castiel steps forward angel blade vanishing from his grasp as he pulls the demon to him and they embrace, there in the park beside the locked gates of heaven, in a world on the brink of hell, under a bright full moon, where a straggling bee, cold and confused shivers and buzzes in the drooping heart of a rose.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The movie Dean is watching, and rather harshly criticizing in this chapter is called MaleVolent I saw it on Netflix Australia and was thinking (as I do) of how Sam and Dean would react to it. The TV scene in this chapter is my take on that reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In this, and subsequent Chapters I will be drawing, with her generous permission, from [NorthernSparrow's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernSparrow) beautifully crafted angel wing and feather lore headcanon and adapting it a little to suit my own ideas. Please bear with me in this chapter as not much is explained about what is going on with the feather that features towards the end. All will be explained in time.
> 
> * * *

 “How did you find me?” Castiel finally releases Crowley, and lets his trembling legs fold under him, sinking back onto the park bench.

“Sam Winchester told me what you’re doing.” A glance at the sandbox. “I was going to force my way into heaven to save your foolish bahoochie.”

Castiel makes a sound as close to a chuckle as he ever gets. “Your language it’s…”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Mother thought it amusing to find me a Scottish vessel,” he grumbles.

“Then, saying I like it would not be wise?”

A shrug. “I can’t change anything unless I find my old suit…which I’m told those overbearing twats buried in the other dimension.”

“There’s a chance you could reclaim it.”

“Hardly!” Crowley scoffs. He sits next to Castiel. “I was gone a while and who knows how much time has passed over there. You know how these dimensions are, a day here could equal a year there. It’s probably too decomposed to be retrievable.”

“The new one is not unpleasant.”

“Coming from you, that’s high praise.”

They fall silent. Crowley gazes at the moon, Castiel searches the heavens.

“Care to bring me up to speed on what’s happened while I was … away?” The demon asks after a while. “The Winchesters’ heads are too far up their own dowps to fill me in.”

Castiel nods. “I don’t know all of it, only what Jack and Sam have told me, and events that took place after I returned from the empty.”

“More than I know, then.”

Castiel draws a long breath, stares into the middle distance and commences the tale.

 

* * *

 

Dean snags a handful of popcorn. Instead of putting it in his mouth, he throws it at the TV screen. “Man, these kids have _no_ fricken idea!”

Sam glances up from the book he’s reading. “Huh?” He glances at the screen. “Oh. It’s a movie, Dean. A B grade Netflix Original at that…and they’re not hunters, they’re…”

“Messin’ with crap they’ve got no right messing with! You said it yourself, they’re not hunters. They’re scam artists for one thing, convincing people they’re  contacting the dead, when it’s all just mediocre acting and camera tricks.”

“Movie, Dean!” Shaking his head, Sam buries his nose back into the book.

“Hey!” Lucifer shouts from somewhere along the hallway. “I _need_ the bathroom!”

Sam glances towards the sound.

“Ignore him. He’s Satan, he doesn’t have to go potty,” Dean says.

“He’s kinda not, though.” Sam frowns. “His grace is all but gone. We don’t _have_ to be dicks, just because he is who he is.”

Dean scoffs, but his attention is on the TV. “Okay, Psychic girl’s gonna get ganked by this spirit any minute now. It’s already attacked the cameraman. Threw him down the stairs and beat him over the head with his own camera… WHOA!” Dean points. “Dude’s leg is _smashed_ , Sammy!”

Rolling his eyes, Sam stands and heads into the corridor. “I’m gonna take him to the bathroom.”

“Yeah, well, don’t let him get in your head, you know he will if he can.”

Sam ignores him.

 

* * *

 

 

“So, this Colonel Sanders wannabe called himself Asmo _deus?”_ Crowley shakes his head. “Surely you must have known he was an imposter. He couldn’t even pronounce As _mo_ deus correctly!”

“I didn’t have a lot of interaction with him,” Castiel says. “Most of the contact I had, was as his prisoner.” He glances at Crowley. “I knew he wasn’t you… at least. I knew that part which makes you _you_ was not present in him.”

Crowley blinks and gives a slight shake of his head. “How many times can you use that word in a single sentence?”

“You?”

The demon tips his head to the side. “You’ve changed,” he says.

“Yes.”

“I like it. You’re more…relaxed.”

“I’m more human.”

“I’m less…”

Castiel studies him for a moment. “Less?”

“Less than I was. Less than I want to be.” Crowley looks away.

“This war has changed us all.”

Crowley huffs a breath which clouds the air in front of him for a moment, before dissipating. “So what other nefarious deeds did this imposter enact in my name?”

“He took over hell. He held Lucifer—and myself—captive. He tried to bring the apocalypse down on this world.” Castiel bows his head. “And he tortured Gabriel. He was draining his grace, feeding on him…like a parasite.”  
  
“You know I would never harm your brother. I know what he means to you.”

“Yet, you held him captive…before. Gabriel was a prisoner in hell for years.”

“As he tells it.” Crowley shakes his head. “He was never a prisoner under _my_ rule. I offered him sanctuary. He needed Lucifer to believe he was dead. What better place to hide than in Hell? Why would Lucifer look for him there?” Crowley turns to look at Castiel. “Perhaps he finds it easier to say he was caged, a sop to his vanity. But he could have left anytime he wanted to. He chose to stay…and then it was too late to leave. Not my doing.”

As if to punctuate Crowley’s speech, lightning flares across the sky and thunder rumbles ominously.

Castiel looks up. “Lightning in a cloudless sky…”

 Crowley mutters a curse as a gust of wind thrashes through the limbs of nearby trees with a sound like an approaching tornado. He stands up, an angel blade appearing in his hand. “That’s a fully charged archangel.”

“You called?” Gabriel appears in front of them.

Castiel leaps to his feet. “Gabriel!”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” The archangel steps forward and hugs Castiel.

Crowley backs off a few paces, still holding the blade, eyeing Gabriel warily.

After a moment, Gabriel steps back. He glances at Crowley. “Oh, relax. I’m not gonna hurt you, demon. My little brother here is far too attached to you.” He looks at Castiel, holding him at arm’s length as he appraises him. “Those wings will never do,” he says.

Castiel frowns. “They burned in the fall.”

Gabriel nods solemnly. “Yours, and many others',” he murmurs. “It’s odd that after all this time they haven’t healed, even a little.”

Castiel flinches. “My grace,” he says. “Metatron stole it.”

“Yeah.” Gabriel scowls. “And there’s been no-one around with the power to help you…but that ends today.” He reaches into his jacket and brings out a golden feather about as long as a man’s hand. He offers it to Castiel. “Here.”

“No!” Castiel stumbles backwards. “I can’t take that, it’s…”

Crowley steps closer. “Take it, you idiot!” His gaze is fixed on the feather in Gabriel’s hand.

“I can’t. You know I can’t. That is an Alula. It’s…”

“It’s mine to give, and I’ve got five others,” Gabriel says. “I’m _not_ proposing, Cassie. Take it and eat it.”

Castiel shakes his head. “There’s no cure for my wings. Keep the feather for…”

“So help me,” Crowley snatches the feather from Gabriel and shoves it into Castiel’s hands. “Take the bloody thing or I will force feed it to you!”

Castiel grasps the shaft of the feather, staring at Crowley in mute disbelief. After a moment his gaze wavers and drops to the feather in his hands. He bites his lower lip. “This is a bad idea,” he says before the puts the feather in his mouth, chews a moment and then swallows thickly, as though he’s just eaten bitter aloes.

Gabriel releases a breath. He glances at the sky and then around the park. The first glimmer of dawn lights the horizon. He turns to Castiel. “We need to get you someplace safe. It’s probably not wise to hang around here.”

“The bunker.” Castiel droops, defeated.

“All right.” Gabriel lays a hand on the seraph’s shoulder and they vanish.

A moment later, cursing under his breath, Crowley follows.


	11. Art Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little something I did to inspire myself and thought I'd share it with my readers. Hope you like it.

__  
_Castiel meets a 'stranger' in the park_   
_Who turns out to be Crowley._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With acknowledgement and thanks to NorthernSparrow for creating such amazing lore around Angel wings and feathers.  
> I believe that the feather eating idea is my own, though I will happily stand corrected if someone can point to where NorthernSparrow uses that idea, I based it off my experience of keeping chickens and how they would eat feathers of other chickens, or pluck and eat their own, if their diet was too low in protein.
> 
> * * *
> 
> The wing anatomy I use in this chapter is based off [this image:](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/61/d5/41/61d54136c39219a46224bb4cd40a93f0.jpg)
> 
> * * *
> 
> I have seen many stories posted over time which suggest that Castiel is a very talented sketch artist. I have riffed off of that, and made Gabriel equally talented. Perhaps he taught Cas to draw, as I believe he has mentored Castiel from when Cas was a fledgling. Gabriel being, in my mind, the brother who cautioned Castiel not to 'stand on that fish, Castiel' at the beginning of creation.
> 
> So, without further ado...
> 
> * * *

Castiel and Gabriel, followed a moment later by Crowley, land in the library startling Sam out of his seat. He looks at Gabriel, noting the difference between the drained creature who left the bunker almost two days ago, and the glowing, strong Archangel he now sees. He opens his mouth to speak, but then hastily steps forward to support Castiel who weaves drunkenly, stumbles a few paces and almost falls on his face.

“Whoa! Cas, are you hurt?”

“I…ate a feather,” Cas mumbles. He turns hazy, unfocused eyes to Sam.

“You…” Sam frowns, looking askance as Gabriel.

“One of my Alula feathers, to be precise,” Gabriel says. The response doesn’t help.

“Wh—why would Cas want to eat a feather?”

“I _didn’t_ want to.” Castiel turns a reproachful look on Gabriel. “I wasn’t given a choice.” He groans in pain, doubles over clutching at his stomach.

“Okay.” Sam decides that explanations can wait. “Let me help you.”

“No…” Castiel growls between gritted teeth. “Crowley. I want…Crowley.”

Gabriel lays a gentle hand on Sam’s arm. “Let Crowley help him,” he says. “Angels need their bond-mate at a time like this, or, the ministers of heaven if they’re unbonded, like me.”

“Crowley!” Castiel cries out.

“I’m here, Pigeon.” The demon goes to him. “Let’s get you settled somewhere dark and quiet.” He leads Castiel towards the bedrooms.

Sam turns to Gabriel. “His bond-mate?” He frowns, confused. “What’s going on with him? Why did he eat a feather? I don’t…”

“I’ll explain,” Gabriel watches Castiel and Crowley make their way into a room and close the door. “He’s going to be okay…” Gabriel sounds like he’s trying to convince himself, as much as anyone. He turns worried eyes to Sam. “Sit down, let me give you a crash course in Angelology.”

Sam nods, moving to a chair at one of the library tables.

“Do you know anything about _ornith_ ology?” Gabriel joins him.

“Not a lot,” Sam says.

“Okay…not that Angels or Archangels are actually birds. We _do_ share one or two attributes. Wings and feathers for instance, and the power of flight.” Gabriel pauses.

Feeling that a response is expected of him, Sam nods. “Okay.”

“Sometimes, if a bird lacks certain nutrients, it will eat its own feathers, or pick feathers off other birds and eat them. Feathers are a great source of protein, for instance.”

“Right…” Sam frowns in thought. “So Cas was lacking…”

“Grace.” Gabriel says. “See, with angels, feathers collect grace from the etheric plane and store it. An angel uses his wings for flight, but they also give him his power.”

“And Cas lost his wings when Metatron cast the angels out of heaven.”

“Yes. Many angels lost their wings, or had them damaged in the fall. A lot of them died from those injuries. Some, like Castiel, survived, and of those, many regrew their wings and feathers. Castiel didn’t.”

A pained cry echoes along the hallway from the direction of Castiel’s room. Sam shoots a glance in that direction. “Because Metatron stole his grace.”

“Exactly.” Gabriel nods. “Without grace, he’s unable to repair his wings. Without wings, he's unable to recharge his grace.”

“So…” Sam meets Gabriel’s eyes. “Eating one of your feathers will  help, how?”

“Not just any feather.” Gabriel reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a feather. He runs his fingers over it, preening it until it’s smooth, shining golden in the light. He turns it slowly between his fingers and Sam watches, enthralled as rainbow colors ripple across the surface, pink, blue, green and violet.

Awed, Sam whispers. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s a very important feather,” Gabriel says. “The Alula. It comes from the…” He frowns in thought and then snaps his fingers. A pencil and paper appear in front of him and the archangel begins to sketch.

Sam watches.

“These are the wing bones,” Gabriel says as he draws a delicate skeletal structure. “The terminal phalanx…Cassie broke that in a battle once. Basal phalanx, metacarpus, digit, tendon, radius, ulna and humerus.”

“It looks like a human arm, kind of.”

“Yeah, I guess Dad used the same, or similar designs—you’d be surprised how similar—and in how many species. If something works, it works, right?” Gabriel looked up, grinned at him and then pointed to the bone he’d named the digit in his sketch. “The digit, is kind of like a thumb. The Alulae grow from it. Some birds can actually carry small objects, nesting material, for instance by tucking it into the alula feathers.”

“I’ve _seen_ birds do that.”

“You’re observant.” Gabriel smiles at Sam. “I won’t bore you with details,” he says. “Just that the alulae in angels are important. _Very_ important. Any time an angel moults, he collects these and saves them. They’re used for medicinal purposes—to help an angel replenish low grace, and in… bonding rituals.”

Sam nods, understanding dawning. “So Cas ate one of these, to restore his grace. That’s awesome!”

“In a nutshell.” Gabriel sighs and glances towards the bedrooms. “If it works, it _will_ be awesome, but…”

“Is he supposed to be hurting like that?”

“It’s not entirely unexpected…it wasn’t his own feather. There may be…incompatibilities. I tend to forget that Cassie’s not…”

An agonised scream echoes through the bunker and Gabriel bounds to his feet. Sam scrambles up, too. “Should we…”

Thundering footsteps from the direction of the garage announce Dean’s entry, gun in hand. “What the hell’s going on?”

Sam turns to his brother. “It’s Cas,” he says. “He…”

Another scream and Crowley’s voice calls frantically for help.


	13. Chapter 13

Sam, Gabriel and Dean rush to Castiel’s bedroom. As they enter the room, Sam skids to a halt. Castiel lies curled into a ball on top of a pile of pillows, blankets and sheets on the floor. The bed, stripped of all linens to create a makeshift bird nest. The room is dimly lit by a small lamp on the bedside table.

“Do something,” Crowley snaps. “He’s burning up.”

Gabriel brushes by Sam and hunkers down next to Castiel. “I don’t know what I _can_ do,” he murmurs. He lays a hand on Castiel’s brow, stroking the seraphs forehead with his thumb. “I don’t think I should try healing him, given the circumstances. He’s already got enough of my grace in his system.”

“Human medications don’t work for him,” Sam says. He recalls the time when Dean offered Tylenol to Castiel, who’d said that even if he swallowed the entire bottle, it wouldn’t affect him.

“It’s a fever, right?” Dean moves to kneel on the floor next to Castiel. “So, we bring it down. If grace won’t help and pills have no effect, we need to cool him some other way. He looks over his shoulder at Sam. “Get some damp towels, he says, and bring one of those big fans in from the war room.”

Sam nods. “On it.” He’s halfway along the hallway before he realizes Gabriel has come with him.

Sam gestures towards the war room, sending Gabriel to get the fan.

He grabs a pile of towels out of a closet, and takes them to the bathroom to soak them with tepid water.

By the time Sam returns, Dean and Crowley have managed to strip Castiel down to his underwear. Sam hands over the towels which Dean lays on Castiel’s bare skin.

“We need to watch him,” Dean says. “If he gets too cold, too fast he could go into shock. He glances up as Gabriel comes in carrying the large industrial fan as though it is made of plywood. “Set that up in the corner, but don’t let it blow directly on him.”

Castiel groans, rolls his head from side to side. “Water,” he rasps. Crowley conjures a glass and presses it to Castiel’s lips. “Drink,” he says, holding Castiel’s head up while the seraph takes a few sips. When he turns his head aside, Crowley sets the glass down. He settles back on his knees beside the nest, his hands making strange smoothing motions in the air behind Castiel’s shoulders.

Sam watches him, puzzled. He shoots a glance at Gabriel.

“The wings are regrowing,” Gabriel murmurs. “New feathers are coming in.” He inclines his head towards Crowley. “Preening helps to align the new feathers and prevents the angel from injuring them. It’s a delicate process.”

“He’s growing new wings?” Sam’s eyes widen as the stroking, combing motions of the demon’s hands take on a new significance. “So the…Alula is working?”

“So far.” Gabriel frowns. “He’s not out of the woods yet.”

“But it’s a good sign, right?”

Gabriel merely shrugs. “We can only wait and hope,” he says.

“Wait…if he’s growing wings, why can’t I see them?”

“They’re hidden.” Gabriel gives Sam a look, as though this should have been obvious. “I have my wings,” he adds, “but you can’t see _them_. Angels hide their wings in the ether.”

“But, Crowley can see…”

“Yeah. All _celestials_ can see them,” Gabriel says. “How long have you been around angels and not figured this out, Sammich?”

“Demons aren’t celestial…are they?”

“Depends,” Gabriel says. “A demon that was a human soul, twisted and corrupted in hell isn’t. But a demon who got that way because he was an angel who fell? That’s different.”

Sam frowns, studying Crowley for a long moment. He considers what they know about the demon. The Scottish tailor who sold his soul for a few extra inches, the crossroads demon who worked his way up to become king, first of the crossroads and after Lilith’s death, king of hell. It doesn’t add up. Then again not much has ever added up about Crowley. There have been inconsistencies, hints the demon has made about his age. His recollection of events which took place long before Fergus McLeod existed.

“Crowley’s a fallen angel?” He keeps his voice low, noting that Castiel has settled into a troubled sleep.

“One of the first.” Gabriel’s voice is equally low. “Although, he seems… different since he came back.”

Sam turns to look at Gabriel. “How so?”

Gabriel meets Sam’s eyes. “Not for me to tell,” he says cryptically. He steps away from Sam then, hunkering down next to Dean and Crowley, smooths a hand over an invisible wing and whispers to Castiel in a tongue Sam can’t understand.


	14. Chapter 14

The next six hours become a marathon of massaging Castiel’s wings, changing out towels that have become too warm, and adjusting the settings on the industrial fan to keep the seraph cool,  but not chilled. By the end of that time, tempers are becoming frayed, muscles fatigued. The fever rages on.

Sam sits back after replacing yet another towel. He glances around at the worried faces. In all the time he’s known the archangel, Sam doesn’t recall ever seeing Gabriel look so concerned.

“I think we need to rethink,” Sam says. Some part of his mind acknowledges the clumsiness of that statement, but he’s too tired to care. “We can’t keep on like this. At least, Dean and I can’t.”

Gabriel looks up, meets Sam’s eyes and gives a small nod of agreement. “You two should take a break. Eat, sleep. We can handle this.” He indicates Crowley with a jerk of his chin.

“I’m not leaving him,” Dean growls.

“Yeah. You are.” Sam stumbles to his feet, puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You’re no good to him if you’re out on your feet.”

Dean resists for a moment, then lets out a breath and gets up, stiffly. He stretches. “I guess a cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt,” he admits.

“Yeah. Coffee.” Sam nods. “A shower, maybe 4 hours shuteye.”

“I used to love flying,” Castiel murmurs.

All eyes turn to him. He’s still unconscious. Dark lashes flutter against his pale cheeks.

“You’ll fly again, Pigeon,” Crowley says.

Sam swallows against a thick wad of something in his throat. He claps Dean on the shoulder. “C’mon.”

 

Crowley glances up as the brothers leave the room. He catches Gabriel’s eyes for a moment and then looks away. “Castiel says you told him you were tortured in hell,” he says.

Gabriel says nothing, busies himself wringing out a cloth which he wipes Castiel’s brow with.

“Nothing to say,” Crowley mutters. “Typical.”

“It’s not untrue,” Gabriel replies.

“Really?” The demon regards him steadily. “The entire time you were in hell, you were tortured…”

Gabriel flashes Crowley a glance, but can’t hold the demon’s gaze. “Not the _whole_ time.”

“Ah. Then, why does Castiel believe that?”

“It’s not like he could avoid seeing the stuff I scrawled over the walls of his bedroom. Stuff, I remind you that I wrote when I wasn’t in full possession of my faculties. Perhaps he read things into it that weren’t intended.”

Crowley scoffs. “But you made no attempt to set him straight. He believed…” Crowley breaks off as Castiel stirs fitfully, whimpering in pain. “Shh, love. I’m here. It’s all right.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.” Gabriel holds his hands out, palms up. “Can we focus here?” His gaze flickers to Castiel’s face. “The last thing he needs is us cussing each other out while he’s in the middle of moult.”

Crowley huffs a breath, but he says nothing for a while. He concentrates on massaging Castiel’s wings,  preening the newly grown feathers with his fingers.

“What do you know about this Asmo _deus_?” Crowley asks after a few minutes.

“Apart from the fact he was a complete douche?” Gabriel gives an amused snort. “He’s a Kentucky Fried douche now.”

“Hmm. You know he was an imposter.”

Gabriel shrugs. “He seemed like the real deal from where I was chained and warded.”

“He…wasn’t me. He was no _part_ of me. I lost that part when I died…along with my best suit.”

“What, and you don’t think he could make his way back over here the same way you did? He just beat you by a few weeks.” Gabriel frowns. “It felt way longer than that, beeteedubs. I thought time dragged in _heaven!”_

Crowley laughs. _“Heaven stole_ the concept of timelessness from Lucifer. Your father was nothing but a plagiarist.”

“ _Our_ father.”

“Not mine. I was never an angel and…as for the prince of hell he denounced Chuck at least a decade before he jumped with Lucifer.”

“How did that happen?” Gabriel quirks an eyebrow. “You and Asmodeus, cohabiting?”

Crowley shrugs. “It was a … _mariage de raison.”*_

“What possible convenience could you find in sharing a vessel with a prince of hell?” Gabriel shakes his head. “I mean, we archangels can be dicks, but when it comes to douchebaggery? The princes had a monopoly on that.”

“Oh, trust me, we both benefitted from the arrangement.” Crowley’s focus shifts to Castiel as the angel stirs and opens his eyes.

“Crowley?” Castiel focuses pain clouded eyes on the demon.

“Hello, kitten.” Crowley smiles, smooths a hand across Castiel’s brow. “Your fever broke,” he murmurs.

“I…feel…” Cas stirs a little, instinctively spreads a wing for balance. He turns his head, startled by the rustle of feathers.

“Easy, love. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“My…wings.”

“Yep!” Gabriel says. “You grew them back.”

Castiel’s eyes go wide with wonder. “I thought… I… Metatron said I’d never…”

“What would _he_ know?” Gabriel chuckles. “He was a scribe.”

“I have my wings!” Castiel looks from Crowley to Gabriel and back. “I’ll fly again.” He tries to stand, and gets a wing tangled in the sheets, crumpling to the floor with a groan of pain.

“Yeah, maybe you should start with learning how to _move_ with wings again first.” Gabriel chuckles. “Flight may be a little ways off yet.”


	15. Chapter 15

“I have my wings,” Castiel repeats, as though by saying it over again he will come to believe it. He turns to Crowley and pulls the demon into his arms.

Gabriel clears his throat and stands up. “I think I’m gonna go…hunt deer, or…Moose or something,” he says as he heads out the door.

Crowley and Castiel barely notice the archangel’s departure as Crowley allows his lips to meet Castiel’s at long last. He purrs, his arms going around the seraph as he tastes and explores.

“You feel different,” Castiel says. “Not unpleasant, but different, certainly.”

“I am different,” Crowley replies. He kisses the angel again but then hesitates and pulls back. “I don’t want to hurt your wings,”  he says.

“I’m all right. You won’t hurt me.” Cas’s fingers pluck at the demon’s clothing. “I want to be close to you.” He fumbles with a button.

Crowley smiles, snaps his fingers. His clothes vanish.

“Better,” Castiel says. He hitches closer, hands exploring new territory as he caresses the new vessel’s chest. “You smell different, too,” he observes. “I like it.” Suddenly he pulls back. “Crowley…you can’t go back… you can’t cross the rift. I can’t…I… I won’t lose you again.”

“No, you won’t,” Crowley replies. “So you’re planning to stay here, too?”

“What?” Castiel shakes his head. “No. I must go through. I have to find Jack.”

“Then, we go together. If you seriously think I would sit idly by like the obedient soldiers wife, then you don’t know me at all.”

“You’ve been a soldiers wife?” Castiel tips his head to one side, regarding Crowley quizzically.

“I’ve been many things, Angel, but I was speaking figuratively. If you’re going, I’m going, end of discussion.”

Castiel nods. He slips a hand down between them, palming Crowley’s growing erection. “You don’t _feel_ like a wife,” he says.

“I would certainly hope not.” Crowley moves in, nipping at Castiel’s neck.

“You’ll stay with me…stay alive?”

“As long as you want me.”

Castiel carefully lies back, folding his wings against his shoulders. He pulls Crowley on top of him. “I want you…always. You’re mine.”

“Yours,” Crowley murmurs against Castiel’s neck. “Stop talking now.” He takes Castiel’s mouth in a hard kiss.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Gabriel walks into the library, glancing around, hoping to find Sam there. But of course Sam has gone to bed with Dean. The archangel briefly considers joining them, weighing the value of Sam’s company against having to tolerate Dean. Gabriel is sexually flexible. He’s had partners of many genders, varying species. It’s tempting, but he decides that Dean is just too much hard-work and a little too xenophobic for his tastes. He paces the library, running his fingertips across the spines of books. As he rounds the end of a book case, Gabriel collides with someone small and soft. Instinctively, his hands go to Rowena’s hips to steady her. She has her back to him and had been bending down to reach for a book on the lowest shelves.

With a squeak of surprise the witch straightens and turns to him. “Och! Mind where you’re going you clumsy bampot!” Her eyes meet his and she hitches a small, shaky breath. “I thought you were Fergus,” she says.

Gabriel smirks. “Nope. Just me.” He lets his gaze travel down, past those soft lips, to the tangerine sweater she wears. It’s cashmere, soft, form-fitting. He likes the way it moulds itself over her breasts.

“I confess I’m a tad nervous,” Rowena says. She hasn’t drawn away from his touch. Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips. “What with Lucifer in the bunker. If he should get loose…well, he and I have history.”

“No need to be afraid.” Gabriel inches closer, lifts an eyebrow. “I’m the _good_ archangel.”

Beautifully made-up eyelids fall to hide the sultry green eyes, the lashes fluttering for a second before she looks up at him, coyly. “How good?” she murmurs.

Gabriel accepts the unspoken invitation. “Very, _very_ good.” He draws her close and kisses those glistening lips. He pulls back for a moment.

“Oh...” Rowena breathes. She presses against him.

With a growl, Gabriel backs the woman up to a table, sweeps books, pens, notepads onto the floor with one arm and effortlessly lifts her petite frame onto it. He slides a hand underneath that soft, warm sweater, grazing his fingernails across her belly as she arches her back invitingly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sam wakes somewhere around dawn, as his internal clock is wont to do, even without light filtering into the windowless underground rooms, his body seems able to judge the time. He moves carefully, not wanting to waken Dean who snores lightly beside him. It’s proof of how exhausted Dean must be, that he’s slept the night through. Sam rolls over and sits up, fumbling for his clothes in the dark. He rummages in the dresser for sweats and a tee, going by feel. He pulls the clothes on and tiptoes to the door.

“Sammy?”

Damn, Dean is a light sleeper.

“Hey. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I was awake,” Dean mumbles. Sam smiles.

“You snore when you’re awake now?”

“I’ve never snored. _You_ snore.” Dean rolls onto his back, stretches. “What time is it?”

“Early,” Sam says. “I was just gonna go for a run.”

“How’s Cas?”

“Don’t know. I only just got up.”

Dean tumbles out of bed, grabs a pair of shorts and switches on the bedside lamp. “I should look in on him.”

Nodding, Sam opens the door. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.” He walks along the hallway, heading for the stairs. In the library, he pauses blinks at the scene that greets him.

Gabriel lies on a settee, one arm tucked behind his head, the other curled around Rowena. The witch is curled into Gabriel, a small hand resting on his belly, her head cushioned on his shoulder. She’s sound asleep.

“Sam…” Gabriel whispers.

“Uh…” Sam shuffles his feet.

Rowena starts and opens her eyes. She sits up, staring wide-eyed at Sam and attempts to tidy her tumbled red hair. “Oh!” She looks at Gabriel and scrambles off the settee. “I…um. I was a wee bit…”

Sam holds both hands up, shaking his head. “I don’t need to know…uh I was just…” He points to the stairs. “Going running.” He beats a hasty retreat, the metal staircase thundering under his bare feet. In the mudroom, he hurriedly pulls on his running shoes and makes his escape. He’s jogged down the driveway and onto the verge before he thinks to ask himself why _he_ should feel embarrassed. It’s not like he was the one caught in a compromising situation.

He quickens his pace, loping steadily alongside the road, and turns onto the path he usually follows through the small woods near the bunker. He doesn’t care who Gabriel fucks, he tells himself. It’s none of his business anyway. He puts the slight nagging pain in his chest down to breaking into a run without his usual warmup.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is the final chapter of this section of my series. I feel that interest in it has waned a little for myself as well as the readers. There is more story to tell, but I just need to take a break from it, and rather than leave a story hanging unfinished, I decided to end this part here.  
> I hope you enjoyed the story.  
> Be back soon/after the holidays.
> 
> * * *

Castiel sits at a table in the Library, with Crowley beside him. Dean, Gabriel and Rowena sit opposite. Sam is on his feet leaning against the door jamb between the library and the war room.

“Okay, so we’ve got archangel grace to spare, we’ve got all the ingredients for the spell,” Dean says. “Let’s get this show on the road.” He glances around looking at each of them in turn.

Castiel nods, looks at Gabriel. “Are you still determined not to assist?”

“I never said I wouldn’t assist,” Gabriel protests.

“Actually, you did.”

Gabriel turns to Sam. “I…”

“Your exact words were, ‘I’m gonna bounce,’” Sam reminds him.

“Okay, so maybe I was a little hasty.”

“We don’t _need_ your grace,” Dean puts in. “We have Lucifer.”

Gabriel shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I can’t help,” he says. “I’m going with you across that rift. I’ve got one or two minor scores to settle with Michael.”

“ _Minor_ scores?” Castiel raises an eyebrow.

“Relatively speaking,” Gabriel says.

“Right, well, I’ll go bleed Lucifer.” Dean heads for the bunker’s dungeon.

“Dean.” Castiel stands up. “I’ll do it.”

The hunter turns to look at him. “Cas, I…”

“I’ll _do it._ ”

With a sigh, Dean relents and Castiel walks out of the room. Behind him,  he can hear Rowena giving instructions. He doesn’t look back. Resolute, he makes his way to the dungeon and slides the door open.

Lucifer sits chained to the chair Crowley once occupied. Heavy warding scrawls across the walls and floor. The chair Lucifer occupies, set in the centre of a devils trap.

Castiel pauses in the doorway.

Lucifer’s head is bowed. His eyes are closed. He is very still. For a panicked moment, Castiel fears the archangel may have found some way to escape his vessel.

“Are you just going to stand there admiring me, or did you actually have a purpose for being here?”

Castiel steps forward. “It’s time,” he says as his angel blade slides into his hand.

“Finially! You know under the Geneva convention, I should at the very _least_ have been given a bed.”

“Your comfort is of no concern to me.”

“You’re learning.” Lucifer meets his eyes, smirks. “So get on with it.” He appears bored.

Castiel steps further into the room, crosses the outline of the devils trap and recoils immediately, gasping in pain.

A low, mocking snicker and Lucifer shakes his head. “Forgot what it feels like to be susceptible to angelic warding, little brother?” He squirms in his seat, affecting a shudder. “Tickles, doesn’t it? I find it a bit of a turn on.”

“Be quiet.”

Castiel has a dilemma. He’s loathe to step inside the trap again, to feel the sigils sear his recharging grace, but he’s equally reluctant to ask for help.

“Kitten?” Crowley speaks from behind him.

Castiel lets out a breath and turns to the demon. “I…felt the warding,” he says.

“Ah.” Crowley saunters forward. “Must be odd, after so long.”

“That’s what _I_ said,” Lucifer quips.

“I told you to be quiet.” Castiel rounds on Lucifer.

“Touchy.”

Crowley moves to the edge of the Pentagram painted on the floor. He hunkers down, scratches a break in the paint lines and then straightens and steps forward. He leans in, close to Lucifer’s face. “Hello,  puppy,” he says. One hand ruffles the archangel’s hair. “Walkies.” Grasping the chain linked to the warded collar at Lucifer’s neck, the demon jerks him to his feet, flings him to the floor. “Actually…crawl.”

“Crowley,” Castiel says.

“You’re not going to suggest I go easy on _this_ bawbag?”

Castiel makes to speak… reconsiders and shakes his head. He falls in beside Crowley who compels Lucifer out of the room, chivvying him with kicks, taunts and jerks of the chain.

 

When Crowley and Castiel enter the library with Lucifer on hands and knees, at their heels, Dean blinks, Sam comes halfway out of his chair, Rowena crows with delight, and Gabriel laughs.

Crowley hauls the archangel to a chair and flings him onto it. The table in front of him is laid out as an altar with Rowena’s chalice, dagger, bell and candles. Ingredients for the spell  are already inside the brass chalice. Only Lucifer’s grace is lacking. Crowley looks at Castiel and nods.

Castiel steps forward, angel blade in hand. He moves behind Lucifer, wraps one arm around the archangel’s shoulders gripping his chin and pushing his head back.

Crowley picks up the chalice and holds it near Lucifer’s throat.

The tip of the blade touches flesh and Lucifer chuckles.

“Happy to help,” he says barely flinching when the blade opens a wound in his throat and bright, cold grace oozes out, ripples along the blade for a moment before dripping into the chalice.

Rowena closes her eyes, chanting in Enochian.

Castiel is focused on Lucifer, but he hears the soft, hissing sizzle to his left and feels power radiating from the bright gash that opens in the air beside him. The rift is forming.

Crowley lowers the chalice to the floor, Castiel bears Lucifer to his knees leaning over it. The archangel is bound by the sacred circle cast around them.

“Go,” Rowena says. “I’ll hold it open for as long as I can!”

 

They need no further urging. Dean is first through the rift, followed by Sam and Gabriel. Castiel leaps after them looking back over his shoulder, half hoping Crowley will have stayed behind.

Crowley appears suddenly, bumping into Castiel who is knocked off balance, careening into Gabriel. They both fall in a tangle of limbs. Gabriel falling flat on his back with Castiel’s face almost planted in his crotch.

The seraph raises his head, meets Gabriel’s amused expression and waggling eyebrows.

Huffing a breath, Castiel clambers to his feet. He awkwardly brushes his trench coat with both hands. “You should have stayed with Rowena,” he murmurs.

“You shouldn’t have stopped in the…doorway,” Crowley replies.

They don’t get the opportunity to discuss any further as Gabriel gets up, glances around and waves them to silence. “We shouldn’t dawdle here,” he says. “I sense…”

An instant later the ground shakes with an impact and they find themselves in a faceoff with three angels.

“Angels…” Gabriel finishes his sentence.

One angel steps forward, obviously the leader of this flight. He looks them over, flicks a glance at the rift behind them.

“You’re trespassing,” he says.

“How astute,” Gabriel snarks. “You’re leaving…or dying. You choose.”

“Who are _you_?” The contempt in the lead angel’s voice is palpable.

“Yours truly.” Gabriel bows mockingly. “Gabriel.”

“Not true. Gabriel is dead.”

“Not from where I’m standing.”

“Kill this imposter.” The angel waves his minions forward.

“Not happening,” Dean says. He and Sam dive right into fighting angels, to Castiel’s mingled admiration and dismay.

The leader of the pack goes after Gabriel who stands his ground, unflinching until the angel is within striking distance and then  casually snaps his fingers. The leader, along with the two minions explode in clouds of ash.

Castiel draws a sharp breath as residual power from the gesture brushes across his own vessel and the fledgling grace. He turns a look of alarm on his brother.

“Relax, Cassie.” Gabriel chuckles. “I knew where I was aiming it.”

Crowley snorts. “Next time, aim it further away! You could have injured him…or me.”

Gabriel merely rolls his eyes at the demon before Dean leads the party off in the direction he thinks the resistance fighters’ camp lies.

Dean takes the lead, Sam and Gabriel walk together behind him and Castiel and Crowley take up the rear guard position.

“Does anyone actually know _what_ we’re planning to do once we locate these people?” Crowley slows his pace a little so that he and Castiel drop back from the others.

“Get them out,” Castiel replies. “That has always been the plan. To find Jack, and get Mary, and the other resistance fighters back to our side of the rift. There is little enough left for them here.”

“So, uprooting them from their homes from everything that’s familiar?” Crowley glances around. “Granted it’s not _much_ of a home, but are you sure they want to leave?”

“We don’t know.” Castiel follows the demon’s gaze. “We can only offer them the option.”

Crowley nods and they walk on in silence.

A few hundred yards further on, Dean signals them to stop. He hunkers down behind some shrubs and the others follow suit.

“I thought I saw smoke,” Dean says.

Castiel glances up at the sky, then looks towards the horizon. There is the faintest smudge of grey against the washed out blue. He nods to Dean. “Something is burning,” he says. “It is a small fire. About a mile in that direction.” He points.

“Can you tell what’s burnin’?” Dean asks. 

“No.” 

“Be right back,” Gabriel says. He vanishes in a flurry of wings. He’s back a moment later. “It’s coming from a house,” he says. “There are humans there, no angels.” 

“Then let’s go,” Dean says. “Take it slow and don’t rush them these people are prone to shoot first and ask questions after.” He moves on and the others follow. 

After a few minutes they approach the house. The fire must be banked very low as the smoke is barely noticeable. Two men armed with semi-automatic weapons patrol the perimeter. They notice the approaching strangers immediately and bring the weapons to bear. 

“Hold it right there!” one of the guards calls. “Hands where I can see ‘em.” 

Dean halts, raises his hands. “Bobby,” he calls. “It’s me, Dean. These people are friends.” 

Bobby walks forward, peering at Dean then looking over the rest of the Party. He nods to Sam, lowers the rifle and walks over to Dean.  

“We thought maybe you weren’t comin’ back.” 

“Yeah we were starting to think that, too,” Dean says. He indicates the others. “This is Crowley, Castiel and Gabriel.” 

Bobby tenses his eyes narrowing. “You brought an angel and a demon here? Are you out of your mind?” 

“Things are different where we come from,” Sam says. 

“Obviously.” Bobby turns to Castiel. “Your counterpart here is Michael’s Inquisitor. Nasty piece of shit, too.” 

“I am not him,” Castiel says.

Dean nods agreement. “Cas is family,” he says to Bobby.

Bobby doesn’t look entirely convinced but he jerks his head in the direction of the house. “You’d better come in,” he says.

They follow him into the house. There are so many people crowded inside that the air is close and stuffy. A fire smoulders in the living room hearth but most of the activity is centred around the kitchen. Cups, plates and cutlery litter a table, along with maps and ammunition. There’s a quiet buzz of intense conversation, but it ceases when Bobby enters with the newcomers. Every eye turns to look at them.

“Dean! Sammy!” Mary detaches herself from a group gathered around the table to launch herself at her sons, hugging each in turn. The tension in the room eases marginally.

When Mary hugs Castiel, Bobby’s shoulders visibly relax.Mary turns to Bobby. “I told you they’d be back,” she says. 

Bobby bows his head, shuffles his feet. “I’m sorry. Doubted ya,” he says.

Mary glances at Gabriel a puzzled frown creasing her brow. 

“This is Gabriel. He…he’s a … friend of ours” Sam says.

Castiel speaks at the same moment.  “My brother.”

Bobby looks Gabriel over. “Another angel?” 

“Archangel,” Gabriel says drawing surprised gasps from several people. 

Bobby raises an eyebrow. “Hell, I don’t think I’ve seen one of your kind in at least three years. Apart from Michael.” 

“We’re a dying breed on my side of the rift, too” Gabriel says. “ _I’m_  not even supposed to be alive.”

“Where is Jack?” Castiel glances around the room.

“I’m here,” the Nephilim speaks up from where he stands next to a young woman.

Castiel smiles, relieved. “It’s good to see you.”

“Okay, family reunions aside,” Dean says. “We’re on borrowed time if we wanna get back through the rift before it closes.”

Mary nods briskly. “We can talk it all over, make plans,” she says. “Everyone listen up.”


End file.
